In one of our hospitals where I visit patients who need inpatient hospice care, many of those folks go to rooms on a certain floor, where the oncology unit is. The placement of this unit has always been interesting to me. When you take the elevator up to that floor, the doors open and you are presented with a choice: the unit to the right or the unit to the left. To the right, the maternity ward. To the left, oncology.
To the right, labor and delivery, where new life is brought into this world.
To the left, a medical unit for serious and life-threatening diseases, where many people leave this world.
Directly ahead of the elevator is a large window and in front of that window are seating areas for family members and visitors. On some of the sofas and in some of the chairs, you see people who are eager with expectation and exhausted, in a good way, from waiting for what they expect will be a glad event. When a baby is born, a little nursery jingle plays over the loudspeakers, announcing the arrival. You can watch small groups going in and out of the maternity ward to see the babies and parents. They emerge with animated joy, sending good news via Facebook and Twitter, calling friends and loved ones, happily celebrating, enthusiastically conversing, sitting back with satisfied smiles. The wait is over. Life has come. It’s a new day.
In some of the other seating areas, the mood is subdued. Many of these folks are exhausted too, but their tired faces are lined with worry. They have loved ones hanging on at the other end of life, and some of them are not long for this world. This may be the end of a long process or the culmination of a sudden, devastating event. Either way, the slumped shoulders, muted voices, and serious looks tell a much different story.
And as I step off the elevator it’s all right in front of me. The full spectrum of life in miniature, represented by its two terminuses and those who watch in between.
Sometimes the division is not so clear. At times I’ve been asked to take a right off the elevator, to go into the unit where celebration is the norm, there to meet the end of life in the place it was expected to begin. On other occasions, I turn left, expecting to say goodbye to someone, only to find revival and renewal of life, a respite from the cold hand of death and a new beginning.
But these are the exceptions.
Most days, it’s life and vitality to the right, death or debilitation to the left. The beginning and the end.
The faith I hold tells me, in spite of the visible contrasts, that these two places are, in essence, not so different.
Birth is the first kind of death a human being experiences. By means of a violent, wrenching process, a baby is forced from its familiar surroundings where it has been protected, fed, and allowed to grow in comfort. Then a blast of cold air, a blitzkrieg of light and sound, a breathtaking barrage of sensory stimulation suddenly overwhelms. Life! Life that entails the loss of one’s previous place of existence.
Henri Nouwen once said that the experience of babies might help us imagine what it is like to die. He conceived of twins in a womb debating the question, “Is there life after birth?” and suggested that all humans are faced with the same dilemma these babies discussed. We anticipate leaving this place of life and being thrust into the unknown.
So, perhaps death may be anticipated as a kind of birth as well. And perhaps the shock of entering our new environment after death will be just as disorienting. But then, as we hope and confess, there will be a Parent to hold, comfort and feed us. A family to celebrate our arrival. A warm place in which to rest.
I know we have talked a lot about how the ultimate Christian hope is not to be found in us going to some ethereal “heaven” but in heaven coming to earth. God’s plan is resurrection and a new creation, not “going to heaven when we die.” God will not abandon the cosmos but will utterly transform it in Christ. We look forward to embodied life in a new and better world. I believe that and think it is important for people to understand. However, in some ways and at certain times it can be a preacher’s question, a theologian’s distinction. It is not always the issue at hand — like when I go up to that floor in the hospital.
The people with whom I work usually have a penultimate question:
Will God take care of me when I die?
So I step off the elevator. I look right. I look left. And either way, I find that the answer is “yes.”











